


Hava'dej

by KJGooding



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Baking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gen, Occupation of Bajor, less angst than I usually manage to sneak in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 07:42:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17300573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJGooding/pseuds/KJGooding
Summary: Bajorans exchange decorated biscuits to show their gratitude.  Tora Naprem finds she has several very important things to be thankful for, even at the height of the Occupation.





	Hava'dej

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShevatheGun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShevatheGun/gifts).



> This was written for a secret santa exchange, so the word count is a bit short but I thought I'd submit it anyway hhh. This couple is new to me but I had fun!

On the rare times Ziyal was well enough - and _Terok Nor_ was secure enough - she liked nothing better than to join her mother in the kitchenette.  It had fallen into disuse as resources were allocated to the Prefect's replicator, but Naprem allowed herself the occasional indulgence of crafting native meals with her own hands.  Besides, any time she had the chance to preserve replicator rations for those in need, she took full advantage.

Most days, she would make a simple broth, something warm and soothing, aromatic enough to be exciting, but tame enough for her young daughter to digest.  Then, there were holidays she observed in private, for which she would steam an assortment of savory buns, rolling out tacky pastry shells and stuffing them full of minced vegetables, thick with spices.  When she was able to walk among the station's other Bajoran inhabitants without being scorned - or when she wanted to minimize the impact thereof - Naprem would hand out the little steamed pouches, tucking them into outstretched palms, which she then folded shut, locking the bun safely inside.

But on days Ziyal came into the kitchen, wide-eyed and invariably stuffy-nosed, Naprem would pause to gather a book from her belongings.  It was old, bound in real leather and parchment, and she had acquired it from her term of work with Kai Opaka. Inside were illustrations and transcriptions of traditions that had, until a mere century ago, existed only in verbal storytelling circles, primarily within the religious orders.  She adapted one of these observations to benefit Ziyal, for she was too young to read all of the handwritten symbols inside, and she far preferred to sit and listen to her mother's retelling of _hava'dej_.

"Sunshine," Naprem began, speaking softly but still commanding Ziyal's attention.  "And _'dej_ , biscuits given as an expression of devotion, _love_."

Her words were partially correct, simplified in some places and embellished in others.  The biscuits were served only during Gratitude festivals, and were designed to contain a concentration of nutrients enough to revive an individual after their fast.  Ziyal was spared these details, Naprem thought as she maintained her smile, because fasting had become a sick necessity of the Occupation, and the Cardassians left very little to feel grateful for.

Except, Naprem reminded herself, the joy she felt each time she looked at her daughter.

"Do you want to make them with me?" she asked.

Enchanted, Ziyal nodded her head, and followed Naprem into the narrow pantry to collect their ingredients.  Naprem spread out packets of millet, a vial of flower nectar, and decorative gems of sugar out on the counter, above Ziyal's reach, while Ziyal clambered up into her seat to watch.  These were more purely decorative than nutritious, but it did not matter for their purposes.

"Yes!" Ziyal said, in case her nonverbal enthusiasm was not enough.  

Naprem helped her to measure out the sweeter of the two varieties of millet, setting it out in a pan and showing her how to roll it flat.  She did not have authentic stone tools in her collection, but an emptied metal vase worked just as well.

"And then I give mine to you, and you give yours to me," Ziyal chattered away, familiar with the way their days of baking usually turned out.

"That's right," Naprem said.  "And?"

She did not think it possible, but Ziyal's eyes widened even further, bright and vibrant within the shadows of her emerging orbital ridges.

"And _Dad_?" she asked.  

Today was wonderful, Naprem thought.  Ziyal was feeling well, their private rooms were secure, and Skrain Dukat would be joining them at the conclusion of his inspection shift.  Even if she had prayed, the Prophets could not have granted her a more perfect combination. Still, as she and Ziyal worked to roll out the dough, she gave a quiet recitation; she asked for _more time_.  More time, just like this.

It seemed absurd, wishing for more days of isolation, but when Ziyal was happy, that fact remained at the forefront of Naprem's mind.

Ziyal worked diligently on preparing her cookies, following along with her mother's spoken instructions, as well as the small ink-illustrations within the book, which showed the most common designs of _hava'dej_.  They were decorated prior to their baking, with different colored rolls of the millet dough twisted and braided together, then speckled with the sugar gems.  Ziyal placed hers in one at a time, and used the steady pressure of one finger to shape the dough in the precise way she wanted it, before Naprem took the finished product, set it on the tray, and then slid he tray into the convection range.  

The tradition began only a year or so ago, when Ziyal was at the age where providing assistance in exchange for attention delighted her.  As the weeks progressed, she had learned to try and steal a glance at her mother's workspace before the first batch was taken to the oven, but she always missed her chance.  Naprem would distract her with sweet words, gentle guidance, and sometimes a handful of rejected, sugar-filled dough for her to sample. And so, Ziyal never got the chance to see her mother's designs until after they were baked.  She had to retain faith that her mother's hands were magic, as she watched Naprem bring them together for a prayer, dusting them until the flour formed a cloud. Ziyal's hands were not capable of creating the same effect, no - the flour adhered more firmly to her scales.

Naprem watched Ziyal, as Ziyal watched the biscuits' progress, stooping in front of the oven and trying to make sense of their shapes through the steam.  No matter how many times they did this, Ziyal's reactions brought warmth to her heart and a smile to her face. Even though Ziyal was trained, by unfortunate necessity, to keep herself quiet - even though Naprem would prefer her to play with children her own age, rather than relying solely on her family for companionship.  Even then.

When the convection cycle finished, along with the chilling phase after it, Naprem opened the oven door and slid out the tray.  She set it down on the countertop, before helping Ziyal up from her hunched position on the kitchen floor. Ziyal was deposited carefully on the cushioned chair, and the two of them bent their heads studiously over the cookies.

"I like them," Ziyal whispered.

Then, with her tongue flicking over the edge of her lip as she concentrated, Ziyal tried to determine which were hers, and which were her father's.  Her attention was drawn to the most colorful of Naprem's creations, sparkling with six different hues of decorative sugar. She had made one similar, herself - although of an understandably lower quality, as her fingers could not move with the same precise dexterity, just yet - which she now took and offered to Naprem.  They traded, and Ziyal bit into hers, giggling gleefully.

"I like them, too," Naprem replied, snapping hers into thirds before biting from one piece - a habit she had never quite lost from her first internment.

"How did you know?" Ziyal asked, of the two cookies' similarities.

"Because I know _you_."

Satisfied, Ziyal finished her multicolored cookie and then returned her attention to the tray.  Her next task was finding the one designed specifically for her father.

But before she could decide, painstakingly separating rounded wreaths and simple plaits and flat squares trimmed with a crust of blue sugar, the vicinity alarm went off, signalling an individual approaching their front door.

Immediately, Ziyal cowered, hiding her head beneath the ledge of the counter, becoming as quiet and still as she could.  Naprem asked the computer for the visitor's identity, but even this went unanswered, because Skrain was already at the door, providing his handprint, himself.

He strode into the kitchen and extended his arm toward Naprem, touching the small of her back.  Then, he offered his other hand to Ziyal, stroking through her thinned, matted hair to calm her.

"Now, just what _am_ I interrupting?" he asked, turning to show Naprem the gleam in his eye.  "Biscuits? Oh, how wonderful. May I have one, Ziyal?"

Silently, she nodded her head to grant him permission, and Skrain selected one of the woven wreaths Naprem had made, dusted with flakes of white sugar.  He held it up for an inspection, first, grandly turning it over and admiring both sides. All of this he did quietly, while Naprem looked at him.

"Remarkable," Skrain said, bringing it to his mouth, finally taking a bite.  "Ziyal, what a _masterpiece_."

Ziyal clapped her hands together and then put them over her mouth, stopping herself from squealing audibly.  Naprem gave a subtle shake of her head, as she quirked her brow at him and wondered whether or not he knew the particular piece he had chosen could not possibly have been made by Ziyal.  And, on top of that, she wondered how the unearned praise made their daughter feel.

"I mean it," Skrain went on, " _beautiful_.  And this one... oh, this one.  This one is too lovely to eat."

The next biscuit he took was Ziyal's creation, one she intended just for him.  

"I'm going to put it on the mantle," Skrain went on, with Naprem and Ziyal both entirely focused on him, following his every step.

While he arranged the biscuit, propping it up against the side of a stone vase, Naprem followed him into the gallery, holding Ziyal's hand to bring her along, too.  She had gone still, otherwise, increasingly surprised and thrilled by each move her father made.

"I am _so_ grateful," he said, taking a lofty enough pause to demand recognition for his generous deed, "for this."

Ziyal's eyes went even wider, and she made a muffled clap with both hands, before leaning in to share a conspiratory whisper with Naprem.  When they broke apart again, she very carefully pronounced the word her father was looking for, to commemorate the occasion.

"Hava'dej," she said.  "For _love_."

“Is that what this is?” Skrain asked, sounding overly enchanted.

Naprem told him ‘yes’ and pressed her forehead to his.

***

That evening, when the cabin lights were dim and and the temperature was warm, Naprem glanced up from her book to see Skrain still admiring the biscuit Ziyal designed for him.  She was already in bed, sated by her lingering imagination after a bedtime story, another cookie, and a cool glass of spiced tea.

When Skrain was finished with his dozenth appraisal, he came to recline beside Naprem on the sofa.

"I think you've seen it from every possible angle," Naprem said quietly.

Skrain slowly said 'mmhmm' as he nodded.  

"I'm trying to see myself in it," he admitted.  "At the moment, I must admit I see only... her."

That gave Naprem cause to furrow her brow, and to tend the fire Skrain was generally sufficient to reduce to embers.  Generally, but not always. He was wrong, sometimes.

"Now what does _that_ mean?" she asked, knowing, by now, that Skrain was perfectly capable of digging his own hole.

"I knew, for some reason, it was made for _me_ , but I cannot work out what it symbolizes."

Naprem lowered her guard and giggled.

"It doesn't have to symbolize anything, even if it really _was_ made during the Gratitude festival."

"Mmm," Skrain sighed again, in an introspective way.

"And it's good you see _her -_ she made it."

"But she learned from you.  Not from me."

"Oh, I'm not an artist.  I just have more practice," Naprem said.

"She's wonderfully talented.  I would have to be insane, not to be proud of her."

This earned a nod from Naprem, and she slowly leaned in to place her hand over his shoulder.  When she slid it slightly inward, away from the armor and the leatherette which lined it, his scales were... not _soft_ , but unguarded.  They warmed noticeably beneath her fingers; so did Skrain's composure, in general.

"Would you," she said, leaving him to his own interpretation.

"Indeed."

They were quiet for some time, while the heating units in the floor boards continued humming away, almost enough to compel Skrain to sleep on his own.  Naprem kept her hand perched on his shoulder, the only thing keeping him connected to the present moment. His eyelids were heavy, but he was rarely inattentive.

"I am trying to envision..." he said slowly, "a future in which others will be as _grateful_ to know her, as I am.  As _we_ are."

"Hmm," Naprem was thoughtful.  

"How curious that she is... everything to us.  And nothing at all, to anyone else."

There was too much for Naprem to say in response to that; she did not know where to begin, nor how, nor even _why_.  So she sat and kept it to herself, the dreams of a future she and Skrain could build together, taking their own responsibilities and blending them until Ziyal would be safe.  

She kneaded his shoulder, and he leaned back against the sofa, making a contended rumbling sound and finally shutting his eyes.

"Someday," she said.

"Mm.  Someday.  A lot of work lies ahead of us.  And every moment is a worthwhile one."

Naprem nodded to him, but then realized his eyes were closed.  Instead, she placed a chaste kiss on his cheek, over the flare of his aural ridges, delighting in the way he sighed.  Then, she stood, and went to check that Ziyal was comfortable, in her warm but secret little bedroom.


End file.
